Ricky Hatton Is an American Idol

If you could only press the mute button, Ricky Hatton would be exactly what a boxing nation is looking for.

The 140-pound world champion is the sort of fighter who would come forward on anything smaller or slower than a moving freight train. Out of the ring, he exudes a charm that's equal parts blue collar and Pabst Blue Ribbon -- or the British equivalent -- and probably hasn't had to gone a night in the pub without someone buying him a pint since his grew taller than a bar stool.

There are giveaways, of course, like his pale skin that makes the Elgin marbles look like they're stored in a tanning both, and the baby blue Manchester City Football Club gear that he wears, suggests not so subtly that he isn't from around these parts.

But all in all, he's a pretty fair facsimile of what star looks like in the land of Rocky rather than royalty.

He is Ricky Hatton. American Idol.

At least, until he opens his mouth and his pronounced Mancunian accent pours a bottle of pain thinner all over that portrait.

"It's pleasing when Americans say they love how I fight, how I am away from the ring," Hatton says. "It's great to think this is my sixth fight here and it's still exciting for everyone. But there is never dull night with Ricky Hatton, long may it continue."


Yet, despite the passport and the fact he finds nil-nil soccer thrilling, Hatton has a chance to be every bit the America's biggest boxing star.

And all he has to do is beat the only fighter currently ahead of him in the race for the job, pound-for-pound king Manny Pacquiao Saturday night (9PM ET, HBO Pay-Per-View).

"Have I thought about it? A little yes and a little no," Hatton says. "That's why I wanted to come to America, when I beat Kostya Tszyu (for the IBF 140-pound belt in 2005, Hatton's first major title) if truth be known. I didn't have to come out of Manchester or England. But I wanted to get a fan base in the United States. That makes me proud."

Since the retirement of Floyd Mayweather and the decline, and later retirement, of Oscar De La Hoya, the United States has burned through boxing stars faster than it depletes the ozone.

And Floyd Mayweather, the gaudy showman whose ring ensembles, which ranged from roman gladiator to chinchilla trunks, made the Las Vegas strip seem understated by comparison, left just when his stardom was peaking.

So, like everything else in the 21st century, America is left exporting the job across the ocean.

To Ricky Hatton.

Everything about Hatton is straight, his answers, his posture, his walk, everything except that distinct boxer's nose that bends more ways than the River Thames and serves a shorthand resume. His fine skin suggests that it would crack if so much as his mum kissed his cheek, but like Hatton, that too is deceptively tough.

And surprisingly successful for a British import. Earlier stars like Nigel Benn, Chris Eubank, or the flamboyant Naseem Hamed, never quite captured the American fancy, either through losses or personality. Even the undefeated Welshman Joe Calzaghe was more of a one-season wonder stateside, making his headlining American debut so late in his exceptional career, while Lennox Lewis never quite captured the local imagination.

Lewis fought chess matches, almost like a magician showing you the blueprint of a trick while doing it. Hatton, of course, doesn't. There are no great frills to his boxing game, even with the now fortified defense and improved jabbing. Just blood, sweat, and a face full of eggplant-colored bruises.

But to understand the appeal of Hatton isn't to study his ring tape. It's to know what it's like to have a wedgie in public. Literally.



Hatton's most endearing moment -- to the mild embarrassment of his fianceé, he says, but of course not him -- was when he lightened up training camp by pulling his boxer shorts between his cheeks and exposed a new bit of England to the international eyes of HBO's 24/7 audience.

His trainer was amused, if not surprised.

"Which time do you mean, the first time he did?" Mayweather asks, implying that Hatton does it about as often as you misplace your car keys.

It's not just that that Hatton doesn't take himself seriously, the sports world is filled with clubhouse goof-offs, it's that he doesn't take himself seriously while taking his career extraordinarily seriously. Behind all the bluster about his everyday personality and living for the moment, he's a careful custodian of that talent. Hatton isn't a Ricardo Mayorga, that one-man stimulus plan for Philip Morris, or a Mickey Mantle, or any of the numerous heavyweights who have eaten themselves into retirement. Despite the fat jokes, the fat suits and the Ricky Fatton t-shirts, he's never missed weight or dodged road work.

"Nobody enjoys the food, pint party more than me, but one thing always on my agenda is boxing," Hatton said before his fight with Juan Urango. "No matter how much I enjoy the party, the beer, there's just nothing close to winning a championship and having your hand raised."

And yet there he is on national television, his boxer shorts wedged firmly between his butt cheeks, another as of yet unseen corner of England on national television. Again.

In fact, in a ranging interview before the Pacquiao bout, his biggest concerns aren't with critiques of his boxing skill, it's with his card playing, disputing fervently that brother Matthew, also a boxer and fighting on his undercard, is a better card player.

"I beg to differ," he says, balking at the mere mention of the subject, before confessing, "he's always been a bit lucky."

But this is America, land of the exceptional, home of the super-size combo and Hatton is still one win from greatness, from truly being accepted as a great champion instead of just a great guy.

"I know what I'm capable of," he says, "It's hard to fight halfway around the world and to adjust to things, but I've done that, I think you'll see."

Hatton has already been granted that most American of luxuries, this side of deep-fried-anythings, the second chance.

Hatton has only one loss on his resume, the knockout loss to Mayweather in the pound-for-pound champ's last fight before his current retirement.

But his prior fights hadn't been the stuff you tell your grandkids about. His first bout against low-pub Luis Collazo was a so-so points win, while the muscular Juan Urango proved to be as difficult a matchup as if they'd asked him to push a tug boat, though Hatton did win. Hatton dominated a faded Jose Luis Castillo, but then fell to Mayweather before valuting back to the top of the 140-pound division with a win over Paul Malignaggi.

"I always knew I'd make it in America," Hatton says of the trying road up, "but I knew it would be tough."

But over the years, Hatton has maintained his fan support in the United States, perhaps because they want to believe the kid in the pub can be something special one moment and mooning soccer players the next.

And he's grown up, too. Hatton recently became engaged and has raised son Cambpell, now eight, along the way. And he's grown into the role of American star.

Champion. Wedgie artist. Father. Dubious card player.

His fans, as they so often chant during his fights are right.

There is only one Ricky Hatton. The American Idol.